In a little town
Down a lonely back road
There sits a small cemetery
From outside the gates
It seems nothing special
Just an ordinary graveyard
Some tombstones recently placed
Sturdy with their glossy sheen and
Deeply carved lettering
Others just thin slabs
Of gray slate
Writing barely legible
And seeming as if the waft of
A slight breeze could topple
Them at anytime
In the center of this small
Country graveyard
Rise two tall pines
Spaced a few feet apart and
Enclosed by overgrown bushes
But herein is where its
Secret treasure lies
Through all the bramble and
Between these two pine trees
Unbeknownst to so many
Rests ‘The Witch’s Grave’
Her headstone is one of those
Very thin slabs of gray
Inscribed with a lengthy epitaph
Which unfortunately can
No longer be read
A few feet away
Facing the headstone
Sits a smaller tombstone
This I’ve learned is what was
Once known as the footstone
An old custom done away with
Many years ago
The tale has it that this is
The final resting place of
The only woman to ever be accused of
Being a practicing witch in
This small country town
As I stand in this dense thicket
Hidden from view to all
I ponder upon the life of
This lost soul
The ordeal she must have endured
Being shunned by a whole community
I wonder
What if she were innocent?
And I think how very sad that
After spending her whole adulthood
Being ostricized
A pariah to a town of ignorants
That even in death
This poor woman still
Remains hidden
Still an outcast
Though centuries have passed
A tear glides down as
I lay a bright red rose
At the base of her headstone
A splash of color and
A token of solidarity
In her dull and unkempt world
I step out of this copse of gloom
And smile as I emerge back
Into the sunlight of
Today’s more forgiving times.
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